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2013.07.11 - Tilt-A-Whirl
Deep down in the darkest dark parts of Arkham there is a cell. One that is not with the general population because the content of that cell is one of the reasons this most horrible of institutions is built. One of the most vile creatures known to the likes of Gotham... The Ventriloquist. Next door to him, is the Joker. Sitting back on his cot with his bare feet crossed on the metal railing and a little whistle escaping him, much to the chagrin of the guards that keep a constant supervision of the maximum security wing of the facility. "Moma gets whites, bright like the sunshine..." He sings, well off key, not even in the on key ballpart, "Moma's got the power of clorax bleach." "Shut the hell up clown..." One of the guards drolls for the one millienth time today, slapping both hands on his face trying to block out the sound of the Harlequins mocking laughter. "You just wait, Captain Sunshine.. in... fifteen seconds, you're going to be begging me to start singing again..." Arkham was not exactly the funnest place on earth, even if you worked here. But Harleen Quinzel could definitely say that, having been on both sides of the cell door, that being an inmate was much less pleasant. She was currently playing with the one item allowed to her: a little doll. A doll that just happened to have an all-white face, an evil grin, dark green hair, and a purple suit. Yeah, a custom-made Joker doll. Why? Because she was a calmer when she had something to 'play' with. And her doctors figured it couldn't make her fixation/obsession any WORSE. But even so, the nationally-wanted criminalette wanted OUT, to see sunshine again, TV, magazines, money, HER BABIES! So the blonde in the orange jumpsuit hops off the bunk in her cell, spinning her way towards the door and swinging her toy out at arms length. "GUARD! GUARD! I haven't been fed yet!" "Don't even try it, Harley." The big, burly male grouses as he passes in front of Quinzel's cell. "You got fed an hour ago, no shut up or I'll thump your skull." "But... But...!" Harley Quinn, without her facepaint, reaches out through the food slot with a skinny arm, trying to grab at the passing gaurd. With a growl he turns, grabs her wrist, and yanks her hard enough to slam her face against the bars. "Maybe a broken arm will teach you a lesson! Last time you broke outta here, you paralyzed my partner, so maybe-" "Ya need ta learn how ta treat a lady!" The blonde grunts, trying not to get her arm dislocated as she shoves her doll through the slot and squeezes it roughly. ...Causing a stream of gas to spew in Burly's face. Within minutes, sirens and alarms are going off all over the prison. If he had to choose places on earth he wanted to avoid, Arkham Island was probably number one on Vorpal's list. He had originally waited a little when the alert came up- an anonymous tip? prisoners acting more restless than usual? Who knew? He wasn't given details over alert channels until debriefing. And he knew in his gut that he'd been contacted because he'd actually been able to put the clown away. Typical Cheshire luck, too-- it seemed nobody really acknowledged that, except for the bureaucrats who lined up the calls. They knew he had done it once, and of course they assumed he would do it again, because magic. Vorpal wasn't sure he could. On his rendezvous with a unidentified agent, he felt small, underpowered and extremely vulnerable. The shield Brynn had lent him earlier today for completely different purposes was slung across his back, looking as frail as the finest Swarovsky crystal... but looks could be deceptive. Glass could be as strong as diamond, and cornered kittens could turn into tigers. In theory, at least. The pit at the bottom of his stomach told him he was outclassed and potentially on his way to make an embarrassment of himself. Maybe even die. "... why did they call me? You need Superman for this... Batman... Wonder Woman... Booste---" he pauses and doesn't finish that. One of the cells in the level above held a rather less dangerous criminal; someone who had killed three innocent people, and had shown such a lack of remorse and sociopathic calmness when being interrogated by the police that he had been sent to Arkham just a few weeks ago. Since then, however, his treatment has been proceeding well; well enough, in fact, that he was to be transferred to a minimum security facility near Newark. In fact, he was being escorted out by two GCPD officers at this very moment. Granted, no one really found out that the three dead people were actually from a secret society, one of the odder ones. And that the person that had killed them hadn't exactly been acting by his own. And maybe his entire identity and criminal record would dispensary from servers somewhere between Arkham and the State Capital. That had been the plan, anyway. And the GCPD sergeant, red hair died black and beard temporarily shaved, eye color changed, thought it was a good plan. That should have been his first warning flag, because good plans never, ever succeeding. The sergeant almost hisses as the alarms go off, looking to the other officer, and the prison. "If they found us out, there would be a lot more footsteps working down this way." He says, before reaching for his radio. "Homestead, Geiger. Something gone wrong here. I need a line in to the scanner frequencies, and get the QRF-" He pauses for a moment at the response, and looks irritated. "Well, what do we have that you can send?" Another pause. "You're kidding me. Well. At least he has a reason to be here. Call him in, general request for aide." He looks to the side to the 'prisoner'. "Plan B. We've got a C-Rate vigilante coming into help, because he is all we fucking have. We need a guard uniform for you." The prisoner nods. Coolly, unconcerned... and probably very dangerous.R Martin's back on the radio. "Second floor, D-Block. We're moving toward back-up cache now." The guard clearly wasn't buying the Joker's newsletter tonight. He'd had about as much of the clown as he could stand for one evenings shift. How had he drawn the short straw anyways? Idly, he thought about the fact that he was caught making out with one of the doctors a couple weeks ago and knew without really thinking about it that this assignment was punishment. On his monitor a half hearted game of solitare was making its excited turn for the extremely boring when the alarms started singing. Drawing him out of his laments for giving up a cushiony job over on the low security wing for a piece of ass... one that wasn't even worth it in the end. They didn't call her Doctor Spreads for nothing. When the alarm went off? He glances up and then over at his 'partner', brow bunching up in concern when they both looked to the door of the Harlequin of Hate... who was inside giggling like a madman. The obnoxiously joyful melody of it taking on a sinister tone based entirely on the fact that he IS the Joker... and he is a very very dangerous man. Captain Spreads (which is not his name, but that's what we're calling him) speaks to his partner in a hushed voice... "You think we should head for the locker?" The partner makes a nervous sort of laugh and shakes his head, glancing down the hallway, then back at his partner... "Uh... look... I'm sorry okay?" His hand slams down on a button, which release the locks on the solitary confinement door and sets it swinging open to the darkness inside the cell. Officer Turncoat, scampers away from the desk quickly... Captain Spreads staring at him in horror... "Moma gets whites..." The clown sings, wiggling his hips as he saunters out of his cell with the light barely lighting his dark green hair and dingy toothed grin.. "Gets whites bright like the sunshine... You better hope your momma has Clorox bleach..." Pointing at the guard with a seven inch sliver of bed spring straightened into a makeshift weapon. The Joker rushes across the space separating himself from his 'guard', stabbing the slender metal object right through the man's windpipe and diving onto him to snap his jaws down around his nose with blood gushing out of mouth like some Japanese anime. Where Harley's cell is there's a new corpse, that of the former guard of the women's maximum security wing, a Joker doll shoved down his throat, two eyeless sockets staring up at the cieling. Meanwhile, in the floor's security wing, two more guards lay on the floor, one merely unconscious, the other with his head turned almost completely one-eighty from his body. It wasn't hard to get around Arkham when you knew every inch of it from dozens of breaks and aggragate years of incarceration, and the air ducts made for efficient means of travel if you were slim and not claustrophobic. Harley Quinn, out of costume and perhaps looking a bit unlike her usual self without the facepaint or skin-tight leather, was pushing every 'open' button she could find for the cell doors on her floor with two bloody thumbs, turning keys and trying to figure out which ones jam into which locks. "Awwwwww, why ya gotta be so complicated?" the unmasked loon complains rather sing-songy. Thankfully she doesn't get to the rest of the Avril song before doors start busting open, letting out some of Gotham's most deranged and dangerous criminals to prowl the halls and assault gaurds in their own bids for escape. She can't open doors all over the prison, she doens't have the hacking skills, only those in her own wing which are controlled from here, so a disproportionate amount of the escapees running out to wreck havoc are women as Harley reaches for the intercom. "AAAAAAAATENTION ARKHAM GUESTS!" But her voice CAN be transmitted all over the prison from her, bursting out of loud speakers in her high-pitched squeal. "For tonight's entertaaaaainment we have a good ol' fashioned ho-down! Grab yer friends, we're movin' this par-tay to the mainland!" Slapping the mic aside, Harley pirouettes out of the room like a teenager going on a date. Time to go looking for her /special someone/. Vorpal narrows his eyes as his com goes off. Ears twitch. He identifies himself and gives the countersign, and hisses. "Second floor... D-Block... I've got to get there somehow..." And that's when the wailing of the speakers echo out with a woman's voice. And Vorpal's blood turns to ice. That would not be happening unless a break-out were in progress. "This is ... insane, one person to contain a whole asylum of the worst... " His pulse races, but there's nothing he can do... except get to the Block. Vorpal knows he has to stick to protocol and rendezvous with the agent first, so he runs towards the asylum and tries to look at any windows on the second floor that might give him something to work with. He was vaguely familiar with the block layout, so he was trying to head to the block and find himself a window through which he could Sidestep. His claws and ability to create handholds out of constructs would help him with that--- and so he wastes no time climbing. When he finds a useful window--- secure as it is, impenetrable except for someone who can teleport-- he Sidesteps into the mouth of hell itself. Or the closest thing anyone will find on earth. Of course, if the cell block they were in was unaffected, which it might be, given that it wasn't the deep dark bowels that contained things like Killer Croc, it might be just a matter of holding up in a locked room until the situation was resolved. The problem was that D-Block /happened/ to contain one Harleen Quinzel, and, wonder of wonders, she somehow knew how to unlock cell blocks. And the first little inkling the Trio have of it is when the doors start swinging open, and some crazed man leaps out and thinks that they might look like good targets. "/FUCK!/" Marty manages an expletive as soon as it happens... and the hands on the the two 'cops' are already drawing weapons faster than their uniforms say they should. Martin's is up first, sighted in a second, and fired to take off the back of the criminals head with two quick shots. Another criminal moving from behind gets caught with the PRC-22 of the other officer, slaming against his wind pipe to collapse it, before it's passed to the prisoner and the other officer has a gun drawn. "Security Station!" Martin, yells, firing off two more rounds into the chest of some unlucky lunatic in the main corridor, and the three break out into a run toward... well. Knowing the current situation, it was probably a trap. The Joker has escape somewhere on his mind, that goes without saying... but right this second he's on a bloody rampage through the home he helped dement. Either way, people are going to get cut. Stalking down the hallway barefoot, the clown walks with his head bent partially forward so his long green hair hangs across one eye and his sickly green can only partially be seen. He's giggling because there's a delight to be had in it all, but he's in anything but a joking mood. In his left hand, hanging like rosary beads from a exorcist priest grip, is the spring turned shiv... As dangerous a weapon as anything in the guards lockers, but lacking in the ranged authority that a riot shotgun would employ. The assault squads are guard up, headed for the wings of the prison that have the most monsters to bring under control, however... and this leaves only poorly armed and marginally untrained guards to deal with the lone 'knifeman' down in solitary. A pair of these poor bastards rounds the corner on the slow moving cyclone of horror and pulls up short seeing the bleeding grin, gory weapon, and red stained jump suit they've now come face e face with... "I never got my phone call..." Narrowing his eyes dangerously and rushing at them before they've really had a chance to react. One brandishes a billy club and the Joker stabs him clean through the wrist with his blade, pivots on his bare foot and smashes the man's nose right into his brain with an elbow... The weapon is released without losing momentum, diving onto the second and taking hold of either side of his face to repeatedly batter it against the stone wall until there's little left to recognize him besides tufts of hair clinging desperately to a meat like product that was once someones face. "PHONE CALL!" Shouting at the corpse, "I WANT MY PHONECA-" Harley's voice over the loud speakers draws his attention away from the corpse, which he finally lets slip down to the ground to pool blood and brain matter onto the concrete. Petting what remains of the bloody skull, he smiles down at it and straightens the dead mans uniform. "Never mind, she reached out to me instead. Toodles." Finger waving at the pair of bodies as he starts off to meet up with his dove, somewhere amidst the chaos. The hallways around the block Martin is in are rapidly becoming an intraversible brawl, since these inmates are pretty damned unstable. They don't just attack their wardens, but in many cases they even fight each other, trying to use the riot to settle some grudges rather than trying to escape. One man is even trying to use his underwear to strangle another with. Only in Arkham. Luckily, even in a place like this, supervillains weren't the norm and there weren't any overly-powerful psychopaths in the cells Quinn had managed to get open. "Coppers!" Squeals a feminine voice, just in time for Harley to come bounding out of the security station door just as Martin as his men start to reach it. She shoots like a turbo-powered superball, launching herself up into the air on powerful legs with a grin that was a little too bright and a little too wide, holding up a hand in a sort of mild wave as she's airborne over them for a split second... And then landing on the other side of them and several other inmates. "Bye, coppers!" Despite the life-or-death struggle this wing has become, she runs through the crowd with an unreal agility, her arms held out to the sides like an airplane, keys looped around one blood-stained wrist as she 'zooooooms' her way past a trio of inmates in the process of beating a uniformed officer to death. It's a crowded hallway, do they have a clear shot? Can they get one off without being accosted or interrupted! Well, if they go into the monitor room they'll find a distinct lack of the keys needed to restore the lockdown! Harley Quinn is already rounding a corner with an ecstatic grin, oddly being ignored by the majority of the violent patients (must be her winning personality, she was startlingly popular with most the regulars). "Puuuuuuddin'! Hold on Puddin' I'm cooooooomin'!" Bedlam. Chaos. That's everything Vorpal can see. Mel Brooks once said it is good to be the king. Well, this Cheshire says it is good to have the power of illusion. He is running down the inmate-infested corridors in the guise of an inmate himself--- jumpsuit, pale skin, bald head. He is running as fast as he can towards Martin's position, speaking into the radio and relaying the message that he was on his way... and disguised as an inmate, so that he would first be asked for the Countersign before getting shot in the head... which at this point, some of the security guards were trying to do. Fortunately he is fast, faster than most non-felines at least. As he goes, he knocks out whatever inmate comes his way that is not in a group, or small groups of no more than two or three. He doesn't need to be swarmed but it is good to thin the herd. He heads in the direction that the agent is heading, trying to make it as fast as he can. --- and there, at the edge of a security station, there are two police officers. Who else could it be, right? "Faucet!" he shouts out. If he wasn't his contact, then he was going to get a body full of lead for obviously being a complete lunatic and shouting 'faucet' in the middle of an asylum break. Because that's functional. It was a hell of a brawl, the type where weapons were useless, especially the non-lethal gear a prison team might have. Even if you could get in to fire your weapon, you may not hit anything before it's wrenched away from you, and then it was just being stomped on with shoes and pummeled with fists... if the people that you were going against weren't papered for that sort of thing. Martin, for instance, fires one round into someone who might have been too crazy to feel it. When he get's close enough though, the crazies's punch is avoided, before the arm is grabbed, and, in a deft demonstration of physics, has force placed on just the right points to cause the bone to snap, and then a quick step to crack the tibia as the man was distracted. The man's motion took him to the floor already, just as Martin was looking for the next man to disassemble; the other two had been just as successful, moving into a mechanical mindset- That came to a screeching halt as they saw a blonde gymnast of an inmate appear right out of the security station. It took one moment for them to stop gaping and recognize who that exactly was... and by that time, he was over their heads and running off. "Front!" Martin yells to the other cop, as he turns back, and brings his weapon up. The automatic still had 11 rounds in the magazine. And Martin did a quick check to make sure the cop being pummeled was on the ground before pulling the trigger quickly, sending rounds down the corridor in rapid succession. A perfect marksman may had had time to line up the perfect shot between the obstacles in front of him. Martin simply filled the corridor with lead, and, if any of them hit Harley, it's because it's mates had already turned the three other inmates over the guard into ruptured sacks of meat. The other police officer has his weapon up, ready to fire at the quickly approaching inmate ahead of him, before hearing the yell. It's responded to quickly enough. "Malibu!" And then all four of them would be in the security station, the 'prisoner' with the cops slamming the gate shut, as Martin looks over the console with a very sour look. "God /fucking damn it/. That was Quinzel. Harley Quinn. She must have unlocked everything and ran off with those /fucking/ keys." He says, before turning over to Vorpal. "You. Let's get one thing straight. Despite the uniforms, we are not what we appear to be. Which means I'm not a cop and he's not in our custody." He gestures to the 'prisoner' with them, who seems rather undisturbed at all of this. "Containment for us four is impossible. Right now, the main objective is extraction. Do you understand?" The Joker is leaving a bloody trail in his wake... a tidal wave of crimson smeared across stone walls and cell doors. Inmates inside start to scream for them to release him, until they see who it is that would be doing the releasing and decide better of it. While Harley may be well liked, the Harlequin is anything but. Even the other patients are terrified of him. For good reason. The first, and only, patient that got in his way was bludgeoned to death with folding chair, then super elbowed Macho Man style... repeatedly... until his inside became contents on the floor through his open mouth. Soaked with gore, hair matted to his face by blood that is almost all someone elses, the Joker stands at the only gate between himself and a loving reunion. Both crimson stained white knuckles are wrapped around the metal gate and his face is pressed up against it hard enough that his cheeks are indented and his eyes are starting to bulge a bit. It is not something natural or even remotely comfortable... but he's grinning anyways. "Haaaarllleeeeey..." He sings into the hallway with a little giggle. Someones sanguinated viceral juices dripping from his entirely too wide grin. "Haaarrrrlleeeeeey..." The single word echoes down the hallway, bouncing off walls and rattling with the musical number of a thousands of patients banging anything they can find against their cell doors. The bullets tear through the intervening inmates like a lead pipe through a paper sack, and they cry out in unison, clutching at wounds, or simply fall down dead. Several of the bullets get thorugh to chase down Quinn, either by virtue of opportunistic aim or simply puncturing through their targets and carrying on. One causes a small rip in the thigh of her jumpsuit, another causes a large gash right below her left armpit as it the projectile gives her a severe graze. It causes her to yelp in pain and surprise, bringing her arms down from their playful airplane gesture and hold her side. She doesn't stick around to glare, though. She's got somewhere to be! "I'm comin' I'm comin' I'm comin' I'm comin'!" the blonde squeals all the way down the hallway as she rounds another bend in the hallway, entirely too fast, and has to carwheel off the opposite wall to prevent from crashing into it, righting herself in time to sprint towards the gate the object of her obsession was grinning out of. "Oh Puddin'! Are ya hurt?" The psychotic sidekick's face falls as she fumbles with the key, shoving one in, then another, then another until there's finally an audible mechanical *click*. The gates are flung wide open, and judging solely from Harleen's grateful expression they might as well be the gates to the promised land as she flings herself at her psychotic on-again-off-again boyfriend. "Did they hurt-cha, Mistah Jay? We got cops a thaddaway!" She hooks a thumb on the hand she isn't clinging to the most dangerous man in Gotham with over her shoulder. "They brought their guns n' all I got's this taser! Let's bounce n' go somplace nice ta celebrate, huh?" Big, shiny blue eyes, so full of hope and adoration. Nevermind all the blood and gore she's getting on her just from proximity. Goddamnit, where was Batman? Vorpal quickly realizes that he was basically all the agent and his 'charge' had between them and the mouth of madness. "Then the Joker is loose," he states as easily as one might say the sky is blue. It made sense. He drops the illusion, revealing himself in all of his Cheshire oddity. "Extraction? Understood. Get this clear: The Joker will come after me directly if he sees me as I am. So..." suddenly, another illusion covers the agent and his charge.... the look of inmates, somewhat bloody. The illusion covers him again "... follow me, hide your weapons and we'll try to get to the rooftop. Once there I can get you and your charge out and hopefully be able to deal with this, too. However... if the Joker engages us for whatever reason, I will drop my disguise and provoke him to attack me, which he will. No arguments, you keep running because those illusions won't last very long once you're out of my sight, we clear? Let's go." The cat-turned-prisoner says, turning around and leading the charge. In a perfect world, the way would be Joker-free. However, this was Vorpal's world, and he knew that to get to freedom, they'd have to most likely cross paths with the Clown Prince of Crime. The man he had put behind bars, and the man who would want his head. The 'prisoner' switches off on the door duty with the other cop, and walks over to a dead security officer, pulling out his firearm and checking it with a casual expertness that belays more experience than meets the eye... which might be expected, given the current situation. Once the weapon is checked, he grabs the officer's belt, and straps it on, before throwing a spare clip out.... Which Martin catches, letting his currently empty one hit the ground, before slapping in a fresh one and flicking the slide release, causing the slide to go forward with a 'clack', chambering a fresh round.He looks over to the super hero for a moment... before the illusion takes over them, leaving Martin tight lipped. "First. You /tell/ me when you're going to do that, next time. I don't like ... 'magic' under most circumstances which this qualifies. Second, that's a good plan, and it works better with you as a cover." He says, before frowning. "And no arguments for me. Bluntly, you're here because I can't get a QRF to air assault this facility and gun our way out. I'm not a hero in this piece, so if you decide you want to sacrifice yourself for my objectives, I'm /all/ for it." He nods to the police officer-turned inmate, and he nods, pulling the gate open, and letting the cat-creature lead the way. They're hiding their weapons, certainly, and trying to make themselves invisible... but the game faces they put on would hopefully tell others that if there was a fight to be picked, risk would be overcome by reward. The Joker's smile only widens a touch when he sees Harley cartwheeling down the hallway towards him, manic eyes following that progression like she's a gazelle to his predatory stalking tiger in the proverbial tall grass that is an Asylum. He watches her fumble with the keys and the growing anger barely contained behind those wide, glaring red eyes is palpable... but to his credit he doesn't voice it. At least not until she's gotten the door flung open and freed him from the gates of solitary confinement. "What took so long?" He sneers... the upper lip of his grin trembles just a little and blood (his, other peoples, does it even matter anymore?) drips form his teeth and jowls... Still, it's a rhetorical question or, at the very least, one he doesn't honestly care about the answer. There's escaping to do. His gaze takes in the chaos further down the hall, narrowing on something he sees for just a split second... tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, "Hurt me?" Glancing down at himself, suddenly in the brightest of all possible moods. The anger forgotten almost as quickly as it sprang up on his face... "No, just cut myself shaving. I wanted to look dapper when you showed up..." Spitting a mouthful of someone else's blood (and a small piece of..ear? Nose?) on the floor. "I've got a car waiting for us. Remind me that we have to pay someone a visit when we get out of here... A thank you present." Starting down the hallway with his bloody fingers lacing into Harley's, skipping like this is a stroll through a park on a sunny Sunday morning. Grabbing up something to use as a weapon as they make good their escape (some fallen guards ranged taser gun). Towards the Warden's office. "We're off to see the warden! The wonderful warden of Arkham!" Unfortunately for the disguises, they don't prevent anyone from attacking them! The inmates are as ready to tear each other apart as the guards, and now they'll have to deal with any of the riot-gear-sporting asylum sentries they meet along the way, since they look like people that need to be beaten and contained now. And, given Arkham is home to the truly psychotic, looking badass isn't quite enough to keep the worst of the riffraff at bay. It's almost literally not to get embroiled in the brawl all over again the moment they step outside! And, of course, there's the problem with going through any locked doors with keys they don't have. Quinn simply squeals in delight when the Joker mentions wanting to look good for her, her own mood as light-hearted as his suddenly was. If ever there was a pair that had more moodswings than these two, surely they'd have been heard of by now. She happily takes his hand, the other holding onto her oversized bug-zapper as she bounces along in his wake like a sad, macabre, two-person parade of serial killers. Most of the inmates, those who have enough sense, get the hell out of the Joker's way. About the only thing a murderous psycho respects is an even more dangerous murderous psycho. Those too embroiled in their fighting get a bite from Quinn's taser and a "MOVE IT OR LOSE IT, LAME-O'S! CLOWN ROYALTY COMIN' THROUGH!" "Sure thang, Boss! I'll put it in the mental memo and even help ya shop fer somethin' nice!" Since heehees her way past cells even as, behind them, security personnel in full riot gear begin to beat their way into the cell block, shouting that the Joker was free into radios and asking for lethal force to be authorized and weapons to be issued. And, of course, Quinn has to tell all her friends goodbye, even if most of them are engaged in life-or-death battles with everything in site as toilet paper rolls lit on fire begin to get tossed around. "Bye Cutter! Bye Fisty! Bye Suicidie!" He's going to have to get to the Joker. The inmates attack them, and Vorp starts bashing into them until he gains enough focus to summon the shadows of Batman himself in the corridor. There's Psychos, and then there's the Batman. "... we'll need the keys..." he says, trying one of the doors... of course, locked. "And that means the Joker. Looks like Extraction's become our long-term objective. We want the keys to get to it..." he starts heading towards the sound of Harley's festive voice, keeping the Batman shadows up ahead to clear the way. "-- I don't know what's going to happen or what the plan is." He stops and looks at the SHIELD agent. "... If I don't make it, you look up my BSA file and make sure that the guy living in my apartment is looked after and taken care of..." One of the inmates, one too insane to be afraid of Batman, lunges at him and he makes short work of the man, bowling himm over with a few black tiger fist blows. "... you and your friend act as you must. I'm going to try to get those keys." And with that, Vorpal starts walking down the corridor in his inmate disguise, on the trail of the Batman illusion. Maybe it would buy him a surprise when stumbling upon the insane clown possee. Oh, who was he kidding? Martin and his team are, at the very least, ready to engage those inmates that are unlucky enough to go after them. Bones snap with sickening frequency, and they aren't bothering to kill who they incapacitate; disabling is enough. In the end, weather an attacking inmate lives, or dies, all depends on the way he attacks. Somewhat horrifying if you really think about it. Martin grumbles, and reaches into his 'belt', held invisable by the illusion, holding up a small device. "One door is not going to stop me. Several might, however, as I didn't expect this kind of violence-" He says, before parrying a shiv that jabs for him, slamming the hand into the wall to cause it to drop, and then stabbing it into the offender's throat, before pushing him away. And then there's /BATMAN/. Well, that was a bit of trick, admittedly, though Martin couldn't help but think that this would mean someone was getting a visit from the dark knight later on. And, he's looking at the man as he runs off, hustling to follow them. "No. You think I can throw money for vigilante survivor benefits? Your best option, sir, is not to fucking die." He says, before looking at a cop that moves toward him, drawing his weapon in a threat before dashing forward and snatching his shotgun, knocking him unconscious with the butt, before hefting his new weapon. Oh yes, the Joker is on a mission. It just so happens that his mission takes the pair in the direction of our would be illusion slinging hero who is on a mission towards them as well! It's a fate train... A FATE train... whatever. I laughed. The Joker walks (read: skips) through the halls over the sound of rioting inmates, battering guards, and preparing to lay down the martial arm of the law riot security... None of this seems even remotely important to the Clown, who reaches for and swings the keys of the asylum around his finger. He's watching something approach them from down the hall... Watching it very intently. A little too intently, no doubt. "I seeeee yoooou kitty kitty..." The warning is not just a warning. He knows he left an imprint on the young heroes psychi, now it's just a matter of twisting that knife a little to get the response he wants. "And I know Batsy wouldn't go /that/ way, when I'm escaped... tsk tsk Kitty... Don't bring him into our quarrel... you really don't want to get in the middle of me and my obsession... That's just crazy." Vorpal is going to have one of those surprises. One of those life altering moments. The Clown slips the keys off of his finger and balls them up like a pitcher... and throws them with surprisingly strong force in a seemingly random direction. Which is to say, right into one of those heavily occupied cells where guards are beating up anything with a pulse. If he takes the bait and... let's face it, he has to, Joker pulls the taser gun and fires it at the young hero. Both barrels. And throws a chair at him. Just for good measure. "Harley dear, could you please go encourage the warden to call off his security squad? Kisses." Making smoochie faces at her, smacking bloody lips. "I'll just be a tick.. gotta go beat the youtube out of this kitty cat..." "It's the Bat!" Nothing in all of Arkham will get someone's attention like those three words. All down the corridor /fighting stops/ as inmates look up and begin looking around for the man who'd put most of them in here. And just like nothing in this hellhole could get their attention like the Bat, few things could unify them more, either. Some run helpfully into the arms of the riot police advancing from the rear, to be beaten down by billy-clubs until they were nice and unconscious and handcuff-able. Some just stand and gape fearfully. And a large portion rush the illusion with feral roars of wanting-to-kill. These people weren't all that smart, after all, or they wouldn't put up a fight every time the Batman came to arrest them. But at least they're jumping at shadows and illusions and not the cat, Martin, and their entourage. For the most part. "Sure thang, Mistah Jay!" And with that famous line, Harley Quinn springs into action, bounding forward onto her hands, shoving off into a somersault that brings her square into pouncing on top of one of the security personnel. She brings him to the ground with a yell, and, as his buddies turn to strike at her, she keeps rolling forward, like some kind of blonde bowling ball, right past their comparatively clumsy swings. That is until a large pair of legs stops her, prompting her to kick out at a knee and hear a satisfying *crunch* of cartilage tearing. As the male screams, he gets a teaser going off right in his mouth. If he survives, he'll certainly never taste the same! "Gotta borrow this!" She hoots as she springs right between two more hoodlums and striking at Martin's face with a misappropriated billy-club. She drops the club, successful or not, and reaches for the shotgun he's carrying, nimbly lifting a foot up, aimed directly at his precious man-jewels, to distract him from trying to hold onto his weapon. Vorpal falls to the ground, shocked by the damned clown. That's when the chair comes and he winces, flat on the ground and blood coming out of his head injury. ~''Give me three days. Until then, try to stay safe, alright?~ Brynn had said. Three days for the suit whose upgrades could have saved him from this fate. Now the world was pain and his muscles weren't responding- how could they? It took a bit to recover from a taze, and that was time he didn't have. He had to focus. He had to focus hard and fast--- and do something, or they were all dead. ~''You want to make things easy and flash your 'second rate hero' badge, be my guest~ That voice was John Constantine. Second rate hero. He'd come back from the dead, he'd tried to make things better, and was that going to be his epitaph? Here lies Vorpal, nobody knew who the fuck he was? He strains, trying to gain control over his muscles, trying to bend his will to do what biology was refusing. The call of the Bat being on the premises makes it easier for the folks who knew this was all a clever ruse, because it allowed them to run in a different direction, towards designated escape routes... or mad clowns spinning keys that meant escape around their finger like this was a musical act. Martin stops and points toward a corridor. "You take him and head toward the door we need to go with." He says, handing him the explosives. "This should get you most of the way, and out of danger. Hold there until we get back." He hands them to the other two agents, now looking remarkably similar, save their demeanor, and moves back toward the fray. "Why don't these fucking vigilantes leave it to-" He stops quickly in mid-combat rant as Harley Quinn comes up behind him, and smashes a club against his face, causing a very bad nosebleed. He's already reacting, though distracted, as Harley's foot zoomed up and impacts the hard athletic style cup covering his crotch. What, you think someone who gets into close combat for a living is going to leave his most vulnerable part /unprotected/? It's still an impact, though, And has him wrestling with the Shotgun, glaring at Harley over it as her slams it against the wall, quickly ratcheting the pump-action twice to eject two of the remaining shells, before looking to the side, and wrenching the weapon down, slaming it back and attempting to force Harley's finger against the trigger so that a wave of buckshot heads in the Joker's general direction. "Kid, you look like someone having a Rocky level inner monologue, so I'm going to give you a nickel's worth of free advice." The voice is the Joker's, probably far away and slightly fuzzy. It'll get closer, like when he kicks the down hero while he's down, right in the ribs. "It's the... Eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight!" Another vicious kick, this one aimed a bit of exposed face in one of those moments where Vorpal is trying to push himself up to his feet. It has to happen eventually. "Rising up to the challenge of our rivals!" BOOM, another kick to the kids side, pushing him back down with one foot pressed firmly in the center of his back and both hands held triumphantly up in the air. "As the last known survivor stalks his prey in the ni-" KA-BOOM! Near miss from a misfired shotgun over by yonder security room breaks... Sending the Joker spinning away from the blooded young hero with a scowl.. "HEY I'M TRYING TO LEARN A YOUNG'EN HERE!" narrowed eyes going back to Vorpal "My point is, you need a montage..." Anger in his voice, pointing a bloody finger at Vorpal, "DO NOT come back to Gotham until you've had one... I will know." Then he's doing something.. maybe a little less understandable and grabbing up the keys he just wrenched from one of his fellow patients hands, by way of stabbing the man nearly to death with a thumb nail, and tucking them into the cats armor and patting him on the shoulder. "Love you bye bye." And running off whooping like Daffy Duck in the direction Harley went. The shotgun goes off, causing Harley to squeak and jump, losing the mad grin on her face. And it's replaced immediately by a pouty-faced scowl of displeasure. "I SAID LEMME BORROW IT!" And here's the point where being a former gymnast pays off! Her legs whip up and under the shotgun as she uses it, Martin's on body weight and strength, and her natural flexibility to try and plant her crotch right in his face. And wrap her legs around his neck. And cut off his air supply while she continues doing her best to wrangle the shotgun out of his grasp. "I WAS GONNA GIVE IT BACK!" Proving she's double-jointed five times over, she loops her arms up and around without ever letting go so that the weapon they're fighting over is suddenly behind her. And then she tries to show him her liquid spine by snapping her face forward enough to headbutt him right in the nose she's already cracked once, yes, even if his face is currently between her thighs. She's just that bendy. With Vorpal down, his illusions may or may not fail, which might cause very different scenes to erupt in the hallway depending. For now, she just needed to get Martin's weapon so she could take the warden hostage! ...Or just shoot out a window and escape that way. Y'know, whatever's convenient. The ribs had gone, and he felt a 'crack' during some of those kicks. Blood pouring down his fur, making the purple even darker, he slowly exhales, trying to fight the pain. He was physically numb, and his illusions were wavering. He had to keep control, or do something. Wavering again, he feels his consciousness slipping and he attempts to stay the course. His body can't respond fast enough, and the riot is going nowhere. Harley is doing a job on the agent. He thinks about his illusions, and tries to find something to do. There -is- something he can do. It's beyond his scope in the magnitude that is needed... but it's the only thing he thinks will subdue the prisoners. He reaches within himself and falls back down again, spending every amount of willpower he has into crafting the illusion. From somewhere inside him, the little fifth-dimensional energy that resided within him swelled and multiplied, consuming his body's energy and his mind. And then what happens is rather remarkable. It is as if the entire Asylum is swallowed up in darkness, complete and absolute darkness. It is illusion, of course... and what happens next is illusion as well. Swirling lights, patterns, smoke and beams of pure light. Before every person in the Asylum except Martin, an actual Vortex Tunnel appears-- that sickening, balance-betraying optical illusion in haunted houses that makes people lose their footing and sometimes even their lunch? It is like that, but amplified and enhanced, and utterly merciless. Vorpal clinged to consciousness as he fueled the illusion. It was all he could to to try and stop the riot, try to stop it. Maybe then the agent would stand a chance. He didn't know where the energy was coming from to do this, something he'd never been able to do before--- but he felt that it was temporary, that it was burning him up like a candle, and that he wouldn't be able to keep it going forever. Martin keeps a hold of the shotgun as best he can, before growling at the girl. "Not your weapon to begin with. I'd be glad-" He starts, but whatever comeback he has planned to the rather put off former psychologists when she decides to try to go properly Blade Runner, and latch around his throat. Martin does spare a proper thought to how much he hates the flamboyant ones with an orange jump-suited crotch in his face, before he reacts as quick as he can, as he, inevitably, will loose control of the shotgun. But he had been counting rounds, and he knew the weapon only had a single shell left. So, as Harley grips the shotgun, and swings it behind her, he moves to pull back himself, holding his breath as he slams his back against the concrete with a wince, even if he was ready for it. One of his legs tries to press forward as Harley tries to head butt him, attempting to slam it into the side of her head himself. The other attempts to place some part of his heel at the repeating pump, trying to eject the last shell... but he ends up kicking the gun instead, causing it to go off near Harley, the buckshot arcing to the side and smashing through a glass window to the side. The Joker was prepared to do some more of his particular brand of ultra-violence on some hapless bystander who probably 'does' actually deserve it (another patient), when the illusion hits him like a train... Stumbling him around as he struggles to gain his barrings in the twisty turny whoa, spinning nature of the tunnel that's appeared infront of him. To those not affected by this illusion, he's wobbling on his legs and holding his hands out trying to keep his balance. So it succeeds on that front and keeps him from joining the fray with Harley over at the shotgun party. It does not, however, stop him from responding to the big badda boom of a shotgun shattering the window nearest to them. The glass rains down on the parade of Arkham's courtyard and the Clown capitalizes on this by dashing in the direction of sprinkly tinkling glass and diving out like a man who has zero care for his own well being, since they are infact two stories up. He hits the ground hard enough to break a few ribs and "OU! hehehe..." Coughing a bit as he rolls up to his feet holding onto his side and stumble running like one of those old 50s moving pictures involving a prison break. Spot light trying to track him and everything. That he didn't wait for Harley is probably because he 'knew' she'd get away... probably. He does crouch down in a bush and watch the window in anticipation, however... at least for a minute. "hurry up!" He shouty whispers. Pretending like he's trying to be quiet and subtle, but not really caring if anyone sees him or hears him. Giant swirling black voids of carnival death are enough to get almost everyone's attention. Fighting stops, some fall down, some vomit, others wander around aimlessly or run into walls in their efforts to escape, their fractured minds unable to cope. Someone starts shouting that the Scarecrow must have gotten loose and sprayed them all with his fear toxin. Others insist that 'they' have finally come to take them away. Harley's legs go numb a bit as the man she was currently straddling like a carousel ride slambs back, making her grit her teeth, though the smile manages to stay on her face. "Owie, owie, ow~" She coos. "Now I'm gonna hafta kill ya!" The boot to the head doesn't quite manage to unseat her, but does manage to keep her from digging her blood-caked fingers into Martin's eyes and blinding him so hard she pushes his eyes up into his brain. The gun is released, it's kicked away, it goes off like a shot... and then darkness fills the world. Harley releases Martin from her crushing leg-death-grip, because damn those legs are strong, and begins backpedaling, trying to get away from all the spinning and the vortexing. "Wha-wha-what's goin' on!?" The villainess squeaks in surprise, her hands up in front of her as she wobbles to and fro, trying to ward off whatever weird trip was happening to her. That's when she backs right out the now-open window, falling out of it and out of sight with an 'EEEEEEEEeeeee', just like in the 'toons. She at least manages to twist after her rather undignified deparature, landing backwards on her feet, tumbling ass-over-end down the lawn a dozen feet or so before coming to a rest flat on her back, staring up at the night sky, arms and legs akimbo. "Gee Boss," she wheezes, not much more than the wind knocked out of her thanks to her enhanced athleticism. "As far as exits go, we've had betta'." The illusion wasn't much... Vorpal keeps hearing John's mocking voice in his mind--- if it had been Batman... Superman... this wouldn't have happened. But it was him. And this was all he could do. He keeps the illusion until he can't hear the inmates anymore, either because they've passed out from the dizziness or because they've run into walls they couldn't see. And then it's over, as quickly as it started. The cat's strength finally leaves his body and he exhales, closing his eyes and losing consciousness at last when he sees Harley dive through the window. He couldn't catch them. He guessed that's why he was a second-rate hero. Martin Takes a deep heaving breath as those legs unseat themselves from around his throat, and he doesn't need to fight off hands attempting to dig thumbs into his eye sockets, as Harley tries to runs from a vortex only she can see. He stands up and tries steady himself, looking around as the sounds of the riot suddenly die down. The illusion has dropped, so he's back in the cop uniform, and he's reaching for his weapon as soon as he can get his bearings, pointing it out the window... and seeing that Harley and The Joker had already run off. "Fuck..." He mutters to himself, coughing as he looks over to the unconscious superhero. He moves down to his body, patting him down, until he pulls out the keys he had, fleetingly, saw the Joker put inside there. "Suppose you're good at a few things. Need to learn how to do more than parlor tricks, though. Like shoot people." He mutters to himself, before taking a small transponder, clicking to activate it, and throwing it on Vorpal's unconscious form, before lamely walking toward the extraction point. Two minutes later, the transponder starts squealing to the Cops and EMTs still up, as well as making an audible sound for him to be picked up. And, in the confusion, the escaped 'prisoner' and the two cops escorting him might not even be remembered. -------------- FROM THE GOTHAM GAZETTE -------------- Earlier this evening Arkham Asylum became the scene of a violent riot of escaped inmates and patients on the secure wing of the facility. Amidst the chaos, two of Gotham's most notorious patients were able to escape the institution, leaving behind a large body count of both fellow patients as well as guards. The Joker and his accomplace Harleen Quinzel, aka Harley Quinn, are to be considered armed and very dangerous, says authorities and a 'hotline' has been opened for any information that might lead to the duos arrest. Young Hero Vorpal was also on the property to assist with quelling the riot, however he suffered major injuries during the assault and has been transported to Gotham General Hospital to be treated. The warden of Arkham Asylum was unavailable for comment, but a full investigation by the GCPD is underway. In other news, one of the guards at Arkham and his family were found brutally murdered several hours after the escape. The interior walls of their home was painted with 'Thank you XoXo' in blood. Category:Log